In The Moment
by TheRavenLady
Summary: After a nearly disastrous case, emotions are running high. Sherlock is on the brink of falling apart- but will John be able to save him from himself? brief one-shot done for the Let's Write Sherlock challenge over on Tumblr.


**A/N:** This is just a little-bitty one-shot I wrote for Let's Write Sherlock on Tumblr. This is my first Sherlock posting- enjoy, lovlies!

There is silence, as there was in the car, as we walk inside. One, two, three steps to the sofa; my eyes are closing as the fabric greets me like an old friend. My head is spinning, spinning, spinning like a top, turning over endlessly and brimming with thoughts that pound at the walls of my skull, demanding to be acknowledged and silenced, all at once. I hear you sigh quietly in the way you always do when you're frustrated. Water runs; a pause. You come into the sitting room, settle into your chair. Your foot taps out an anxious rhythm.

I count the beat, section it into measures- turn it into a symphony of anxiety. The notes dance behind my closed eyes as you tap, tap, tap away. The minutes go by, the music stretching, until it is broken, distorted and interrupted, by the whistle of the kettle, so angry and demanding. My eyes open; I stand to go relieve it of its agony, steam coming from the spout. You have the same idea; our hands brush. You step back. I glance at you. Your mouth is in a thin line; your brow is furrowed, and your eyes are dark with your frustrations.

Tea is served.

My head is still spinning as I sip politely at my tea- not enough. Never, ever enough. I feel the beck and call; three nicotine patches are carefully placed on my arm, my sleeves rolled up. You give me a look as I do so, telling me of your exasperation with my habit. I care. But I don't- not in this moment. Not after how this ended.

"Sherlock, it wasn't your fault," you whisper. Always the optimist.

"Please."

"I'm serious."

Our eyes meet from across the room. You're so serious, but so tender. Your concern, so obvious, is annoying. But a little endearing, to say the least. I lay back, stretching out, my mind threatening to combust for its business. Endless deductions, accusations- a list of what went wrong...

"Stop it. I know what you're doing over there- stop it."

I stand again- abruptly, quickly- and pace about. I feel it all building into a wave, beating against my insides, threatening to burst.

It crawls out of my throat before I can stop it.

"No," I say. The word is harsh, sharp- just like that knife, the one she used to slit her throat... "No! I won't stop! Don't you see, John, what we could have done?! Don't you understand, you simple thing, what went wrong?!" A hand harshly raked through my hair. "No! No! No! I refuse to believe there was nothing to do to stop it- and I will continue to list the things that are wrong until I get it!"

You look at me, your eyes wide. Your mouth is pressed into that line again- I just want to reach over and smooth it out. It mocks me. The nicotine, now getting into my system, is trying desperately to calm me down, but I am barreling forward like a train. I look at you again- you are poised on the edge of your chair, ready to take action at a moment's notice. Always the soldier. Always trying to save me from something.

"I was wrong, John. I didn't see it- I didn't see her reach. I didn't know she would..."

Then you are here, and your hands, so strong and firm, are on my shoulders. You're tense; but your eyes are clear, and your expression speaks of determination. You look right into my eyes, your mouth still in that damned, hard line, and glare at me for a moment before you speak.

"Sherlock. Shut. Up. There was nothing we could've done. If not today, she would've taken her life another day. You and I both know there would be no stopping her. She would've done it any day. There was nothing you could've done, and you're. Not. Wrong."

You believe in each word you're saying, your brow furrowed and your eyes hard. And as I look at you, something bends within me, bends into further chaos- but a much different kind, you see. I find myself reaching forward, my hands coming to your mouth. It's that damned line- so hard and thin and resolute. You look at me in surprise. I lower my hand and look to the floor, my brain trying desperately to shut off and calm down.

A sigh slides from in between my lips- a tense, angry sound. The sound of frustration and upset and wrong, pouring from me like exhaust from an overworked engine. Death. I see it every day- every single day of my life- but today, it has done something to me.

It was the girl.

She was fourteen. Her name was Amelia. Her parents had been murdered in the house. The man who robbed the place had done it- demanded she bring him all the valuables, or her parents were dead. She did as he asked- she fluttered about the place, taking jewelry and china and electronics, and piling them in front of the grinning man with the gun as her parents hung in the balance.

He killed them, anyway.

She was kept in a separate room so they could clean up and get everyone in to do what they needed- she asked to go to the restroom, and when they didn't hear from her for twenty minutes, they found her, on the floor, a pocketknife in her limp hand, her throat open and painted crimson. She wrote 'I'm sorry' on the mirror in her mother's lipstick.

She kept telling everyone that it was her fault. That she hadn't done enough- she must've done something wrong. Otherwise they would've been spared. That had to be the only explanation to the traumatized fourteen year-old girl who sobbed her answers to the policemen who questioned her. That's what she said when I questioned her- she did something wrong. It was her fault. She didn't mean to have them killed. She was sorry, so sorry, that she had allowed herself to make such a grave mistake so as to let him kill them. That she would never forgive herself. That she didn't know what she was going to do.

You look at me, your face softening. You pull me closer to you in an embrace, and my heart betrays me, hammering against my chest. My whole body is rioting against me, because tears slide from my eyes as you hold me close to you and whisper assurances in my ear; and when you look at me, I feel something shift.

"I was wrong," I whisper.

"Dammit, Sherlock," you say with a sigh.

That line. That fucking line. I can't stand it a moment longer- so I press my mouth to yours, our lips colliding in a sudden burst.

A supernova blooms in my chest; my heart rages inside of me. You break away first, your eyes wide. But your lips aren't in that line anymore; they are parted and soft. There is no sound but our breathing as we stand so very close to one another. The supernova in my chest blooms into a fire. You draw me closer, and our lips meet again in a hungry embrace.

For the first time in what seems like a millennia, my mind slows down. And then stops, coming to a glorious halt as your mouth, so much softer than it looks, moves sweetly against my own. Another sigh escapes me- but this one is a sigh of content. I cling to you, the tears falling so freely from my stupid, betraying eyes as we kiss. As the fire in my heart slowly spreads through my veins, traveling into my limbs and flowing through me, filling me with heat. It is a sense of hysteria that's taking over me, starting with that bloom in my heart that has now swallowed me whole.

Why, John? Why do you keep saving me this way?- it's not even your job- but here you are, kissing me back and giving me yourself, giving me everything that I am asking of you. And I never know why; I have done so much wrong by you. I have done so much wrong, even just today, that I can barely stand myself- yet here you are, your arms about me and your lips on mine, your hands in my hair, and I am just...

I feel you patching me together again.

This time, when we break apart, your eyes are clearer. You know exactly what you have just done, and you're not sorry for it in the least. And you look me right in the eyes, and smile. Just a simple, contented smile that speaks volumes.

"You're going to be okay, Sherlock," you whisper. "I promise. You're going to be okay."

"John..."

I am weak, in this moment, as you look at me with your suddenly knowledgeable eyes. I can tell that you can see me clearly for perhaps the first time, and I feel so exposed under your gaze that I have to look away. I look down, trying to calm my raging heart, which is beating against my ribcage with ferocity.

You lift my chin up gently with your hand, and our eyes meet again. This is all just damnable. What's just happened? I can't really think straight. My thoughts are scattered. My face is hot- but I stand my ground and you look you evenly in the eye like a man.

"You're okay."

I close my eyes and lean forward, right into you. You are solid and strong, and real, and I take all of this in mind as I lean, breathing you in.

"I will be," I whisper in your ear, my lips brushing it ever so slightly. "I will be."


End file.
